A Short Poem


I’ll wait for spring
when the cherry trees bloom
and on my anamnestic skin
glisten gilded mornings.

Insensible is the withering heart
that clutches at dead winter air,
when there is still one that loves,
that loves without regret,
even if it not be now but then.

For God has given you graces.
These are no mere words—
Truth flowers in every perfumed letter.

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